A Terrible Vision
by HaliaeetusLeucocephalus
Summary: Aramis has a nightmare only to find that things aren't much better in reality than they are in his dream. (Title taken from chapter 40 of 'The Three Musketeers' by Alexandre Dumas) xx


Aramis stood in a long, narrow room with bars on the high windows and only one heavy door opposite him. He knew he was waiting for something but he just couldn't remember what. With a shudder he turned and paced the length of the room, letting his hand trail along the cold, rough stone of the wall. A feeling of unease had settled over him that he couldn't seem to shift. Something bad was about to happen and he was certain that he was supposed to do something about it, if only he could think of what it was.

Suddenly the door opened with a crash and several men wrapped in thick, black cloaks filed in dragging a limp, blood covered figure with them. They tossed the figure on the ground and one of them kicked him hard in the ribs. The man on the floor moaned and rolled away from his attacker who laughed and aimed another kick at him.

With an angry growl Aramis made to rush forwards to assist the injured man but he found he couldn't move. Struggling violently against the unidentified force that held him pinned to the wall he shouted at the men to stop but they didn't seem to hear him or if they did they took no notice of him, they continued to beat and kick the man curled on the ground who whimpered feebly and tried to stand but collapsed back again as a fist slammed into the side of his head.

"That's enough!", a cold voice ordered from the doorway and a tall man wrapped in a cloak with his face hidden advanced into the room.

The helpless musketeer felt an immense sense of relief and stopped fighting to get free. His relief was short-lived however as the stranger pulled a long, thin dagger from under his cloak and advanced slowly on the battered figure, crouching down beside him.

With a yell Aramis frantically redoubled his efforts to escape. He was sure he had to help this unknown man who was about to be killed, even if he couldn't remember why. Throwing himself forwards he managed to take a single step towards the men at the far end of the room, but was violently thrown back against the wall. Black spots exploded in front of his eyes and the musketeer could feel something warm and sticky trickling through his hair and into his collar.

As Aramis watched, unable to do anything, the knife descended almost in slow motion towards the victim's chest. At the last minute the man turned his head and to his horror the musketeer recognised him.

"No! Porthos!"

With a start Aramis sat up shaking and sweating and looked frantically around him. He had been lying wrapped in his coat under a tree, where they had decided to stop for the night. Rain dripped slowly down on him in a steady drizzle and a strong breeze shook the surrounding trees, making them sway unsteadily above him. Nothing else moved, there were no shadowy figures in black, no barred windows, no daggers. Beside him he could just make out his three friends, all still sleeping peacefully.

Sighing Aramis lay down again and waited for his breathing and heart rate to return to normal. It had just been a dream, nothing more. He shook his head, annoyed with himself for letting it upset him so much. Porthos was fine, he was lying right there. There was nothing to worry about. Still Aramis found I hard to shake off the feeling of dread and he caught himself glancing over at where Porthos was sleeping several times just to make sure he was still safe.

Eventually he felt himself relaxing again when there was no sudden attack or ambush, but now he was awake it was impossible to go back to sleep again. It was cold and uncomfortable and the ground beneath him was wet and boggy. Irritatingly some small creature snuffled noisily through the nearby hedge and the rain pattered infuriatingly on the leaves above his head.

With another sigh Aramis rolled over and clambered to his feet, his cold muscles protesting after lying in the mud for so long. A short stroll would do him good, he decided, so he stepped carefully past his friends and wandered a short way across the open fields to their right.

As he walked the musketeer thought he saw something moving through the rain ahead of him. Stopping he put his hand on the hilt of his sword and peered carefully around for signs of anything unusual. The outline of the trees at the far side of the field was just visible from where he stood. Quickly Aramis scanned the undergrowth as best he could. Perhaps it was just the effect of his earlier nightmare but something made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Gripping his sword tightly he backed towards his friends, never taking his eyes off the place where he was sure had seen something move.

Aramis had almost reached the others when in the dark he saw a glint of silver, hastily concealed, like the reflection of moonlight on a sword. Instantly he turned and dashed the last few feet to rejoin his companions, but before he could reach them or even shout out a warning shadows figures burst from the surrounding bushes and launched themselves at the three sleeping men.

Startled D'Artagnan's horse shied and almost jumped on Athos who fortunately had been woken by the sound of the attack and managed to throw himself to the side, snatching up his sword as he did so. "Ambush!", he yelled and threw himself on the nearest assailant bringing his sword slicing down across the man's chest, who crumpled noiselessly to the floor.

Agilely D'Artagnan, immediately wide awake, sprang to his feet and rushed to help Porthos, who was already grappling with two attackers, having been unable to pick up his sword fast enough. One of them was already struggling with blood gushing from a broken nose, the other had a bruise spreading across the side of his face and looked a little dazed. In seconds the two friends finished them off and Porthos pulled out his sword. "Where's Aramis?", he shouted as a wiry man in a dark cloak charged at him, sword raised.

All D'Artagnan could do was shake his head as more men were now advancing making talking impossible. He looked around but in the dark with the rain dripping in his eyes and clouding his vision he couldn't make Aramis out anywhere. There was nothing he could do apart from hope his friend hadn't been killed.

Beside him Athos had received a sword cut to his right arm and he had been forced to change the weapon into his other hand. Blood dripped from his fingers and he occasionally grimaced in pain but other than the the injury had no effect on the musketeer, he fought on with as much determination and skill as before. Still the three friends were losing ground. It was difficult to count the number of attackers but it must have been at least twenty and they pressed forwards relentlessly, sure of victory.

A short distance away across the field Aramis was slowly fighting his way through to join his friends. He could just make out the tall form of Porthos towering above the men around him so he made his way towards the giant musketeer. With their attention focussed on the small group under the tree most of the unknown attackers were taken by surprise and by the time he reached his companions Aramis had wounded or killed five men.

By now the strangers were starting to look less confidant. The men looked from their captain to their dead comrades on the floor and seemed reluctant to attack the musketeers. They drew back a few steps and muttered quietly among themselves. This slight hesitation only lasted for a second but it was enough for D'Artagnan to leap forwards and snatch the sword from the hand of the man who was clearly in charge of the operation. Seeing their captain disarmed the remaining men turned and fled into the darkness as quickly as they had come. Abandoned by his men their superior also turned and ran, leaving his sword behind.

"Stop him," Athos instructed calmly and as Aramis and D'Artagnan set off after the fleeing officer he gathered up their horses, that had scattered when the fighting started. When he returned to their camp his friends were already waiting for him.

Aramis shook his head, "He got away."

"Who do you think they were?" D'Artagnan was leaning over one of the bodies, studying his clothing for any clues as to who had attacked them. The man was not wearing any kind of uniform, though the assailants had clearly been soldiers from they way they fought. He was wrapped in a tattered dark cloak and his boots were old and scuffed with a hole in the toe. There was nothing else remarkable about his appearance. The young man shrugged and straightened up. "Whoever they were I think we should be more careful from now on."

Slowly Athos nodded, lost in thought. "I agree. We should ride on now before they come back again."

"Is that a wise idea? They could be watching...," D'Artagnan began but he was interrupted by Aramis.

"Where is Porthos?" In all the chaos of the fight and then chasing the officer none of them had noticed Porthos was missing, but as Aramis had turned to collect up his things he had noticed that Porthos was not stood behind him as he had supposed. In fact he was nowhere to be seen at all. With a hideous feeling of dread Aramis made himself cross the few feet of grass to the spot where he had last seen his friend. He felt like he was trapped in his nightmare again, just this time he couldn't wake up.

There was a dark shape slumped at the foot of the tree and even though he didn't want to believe it Aramis knew without looking that it was Porthos. Everything seemed to move painfully slowly as Aramis knelt down beside the still form of his best friend and turned him over.

Porthos' eyes were closed tightly and his face was very pale in the moonlight. He was still breathing but only just, his breath coming in ragged, painful gasps. A dark stain was slowly spreading across the front of his clothing and blood had soaked into the wet ground beneath him. As Aramis moved him the injured musketeer let out a feeble moan and to his friend's surprise his eyes fluttered open. He put a hand up to his chest and tried to say something, but it came out as a strange choking sound instead. Fixing his eyes on Aramis, who was leaning over him, Porthos struggled to speak again.

"Porthos, everything will be alright. Try not to talk." Aramis tried to sound calm and reassuring but his voice wobbled dangerously. He really hoped Porthos didn't notice. "We've got to take you somewhere lighter and then we can get you stitched up and you'll be fine." With a pained sigh Porthos closed his eyes again and lent his head trustingly against his best friend's shoulder. Aramis could have cried.

Quietly so as not to disturb his injured friend Athos approached and crouched down beside Aramis. "D'Artaganan and I will ride on ahead to find somewhere to take him. Better not move him until we know where we're going. You wait here with him until we come to fetch you." With that Athos straightened up, swung himself gracefully onto his waiting horse and he and D'Artagnan galloped off across the fields and out of sight.

Left alone with his injured companion Aramis had nothing to do, once he had done his best to wrap something tightly around Porthos' chest to stop the bleeding, but obsessively listen to each breath his friend took and analyse whether he sounded better or worse. Every time Porthos' breath hitched or he coughed Aramis found himself holding his breath too until Porthos breathed normally again. It was the longest wait of his whole life. Seconds felt like minutes and minutes were dragged out into hours.

Just as the sky was starting to lighten slightly D'Artaganan came galloping back as fast as his horse could carry him. From the look on his face as he jumped down he was surprised to see Porthos still alive, clearly he had been expecting the worst. Without comment he helped Aramis to lift their friend onto his horse and secure him there with rope. Then they both mounted and they set of as fast as they could go without jolting Porthos.

Grateful that D'Artagnan didn't seem to feel the need to talk Aramis followed the young man across the fields, leading Porthos' horse behind him. As they rode the details of his nightmare came back to his mind and the musketeer shuddered and quickened his pace.

Eventually they stopped outside a small inn and the two friends dismounted. Athos was waiting for them and he came forwards to help them lift Porthos off his horse and carry him inside. The wounded man made a noise that sounded almost like a whimper and struggled feebly but didn't wake up. "In here." Athos led them into a small room that was bare apart from a narrow bed, a wooden table and two stools. Candles had been lit and there was a small fire in the grate.

Carefully they placed Porthos on the bed and Aramis unwrapped the bandages and peeled back his blood soaked shirt. An angry hiss escaped him when he saw the deep stab wound in the right side of his friend's chest. Behind him he could hear Athos and D'Artagnan whispering to each other but he didn't really care what they were saying, all that mattered was saving Porthos. Rummaging through his things the musketeer pulled out a needle and thread. He hated this, having to stitch his friends back together, but it always seemed to end up as his job.

Much later Athos and D'Artagnan had left the room and Aramis was alone with the sleeping Porthos. He was perched on a stool beside the bed watching for any change in his patient's condition. Lack of sleep and hunger where making him feel light-headed and dizzy, but he had refused Athos' offer of breakfast, preferring to watch over his friend. It was the worst feeling in the world, knowing that there was nothing else he could do and just having to wait. Unable to sit still any longer he got up and paced up and down the little room.

"Aramis?"

Relief swept through him and he dashed back to the bed. Porthos' eyes were open and he was watching his friend with a frown on his face. "Porthos, you're awake!" It took a lot of effort for Aramis to stop himself from throwing his arms around the injured musketeer.

Despite the obvious pain he was in Porthos grinned. "Didn't think you'd got rid of me that easily, did you?" His voice sounded strained and croaky but Aramis didn't care, he was talking and that was the main thing.

Gently Aramis rearranged the blankets covering his friend. "Get some rest."

With a sigh Porthos closed his eyes again. Just as Aramis was sure he was fast asleep he whispered, "Thanks, Aramis."

With a smile Aramis settled himself more comfortably on his stool, with his back leaning against the wall. "You're welcome," he muttered, closed his eyes and soon he was asleep as well.


End file.
